The Beauty of Humanity Movement (61 page)

While H
ng believed it was time for the humbling of people like the wealthy Changs with their orchid-white skin, gold teeth, cruel taunts, vast acreage and team of beleaguered workers, he was genuinely worried about the fate of smaller landowners in the village like Widow Nguy
t. After H
ng’s parents had laboured for fifteen years in her fields, Widow Nguy
t had felt moved to grant them a plot exclusively for their own use. His parents had erected a shrine in her honour in that field as if she were their own ancestor. It was from that plot that they’d been able to earn the money for the shared use of a water buffalo and to have school uniforms made for the last of the boys—H
ng, despite the curse upon his cheek, included.

H
ng had continued to wear that school uniform long after he was sent to Uncle Chi
n in Hanoi. While H
ng felt proud of the implication that he had had some education, Uncle Chi
n’s chief dishwasher called him over one day and asked if he knew how ridiculous he looked—like an oversized, provincial schoolboy who’d been expelled from school years ago but didn’t have the heart to tell his parents.

H
ng burned with shame. He didn’t have any other clothes, certainly nothing respectable enough to wear while serving in a restaurant in the city.

“Give the uniform to me,” the dishwasher said more gently. “I’ll make you a shirt from it. Ask your Uncle Chi
n for plenty of đ
ng and I’ll buy the material to make you a pair of trousers as well.”

As if to ward off any further expectation of kindness, she looked at his birthmark and quickly added, “Shame we can’t cover up that mud stain on your future.”

H
ng raised his hand to his face as he walked the last kilometre toward his family’s village. He caressed the soft fur of the auspicious mole with the tips of his fingers, a sensation that often gave him comfort.